


Say My Name

by TaraLaurel1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Hurt, Hurt Greg, Hurt Lestrade, Lestrade-centric, Male Friendship, Poor Lestrade, Protective Greg, Protective Lestrade, poor Greg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:34:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9457496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraLaurel1/pseuds/TaraLaurel1
Summary: Based on tumblr user diglestrade's prompt: "No but imagine Greg getting shot in front of Sherlock. Possibly Greg taking a bullet for him. And as he falls down, Sherlock would scream: 'GREG!' This is the story of how I broke my own heart."**Originally posted 1st chapter 7-17-2014 on FF.net but never updated due to lost files. Recently recovered files and editing/re-posting on both sites!





	

**Author's Note:**

> As I said in the summary, this was originally posted in FALL OF 2014!! Whoa. You know, two years ago when I lost all my files and abandon all my works and left all you wonderful people with several stories hanging on cliffs...whoops. Well, I've recovered the missing files!! While I finish those cliffhanger, longer works up, here is some Hurt/Fluff to numb the pain and beg your forgiveness (If anyone out there still remembers who I am and reads this!)

_Greg’s heart was hammering mercilessly against the inside of his chest. He could feel every pained and panicking punch, hear every piercing point. Vaguely, he wondered if the genius consulting detective, yeah that one that could never remember his name, could hear it too. He wondered if Sherlock could take one fleeting glance at the man and deduce the sheer terror that was strangling the vital organ. He tired, oh he tried, to keep the fear from his face. He was the bloody Chief Detective Inspector, damn it. But Greg wasn’t a high functioning sociopath and when the murderer lifted his gun at said self-professed sociopath, there was no masking the panic._

_It had been a month, a bloody month, since Sherlock’s dramatic return from the grave. A month since Greg had practically tackled the man into a hug in that parking garage._

_One month._

_Too soon for them to lose him a second time. Too soon for even the possibility of Sherlock slipping from their grasp all over again._

_The murderer with his revolver currently aimed at the mad detective’s heart had already taken a dozen lives. Scotland Yard and Sherlock Holmes had been chasing the spree killer almost an entire week. He was a brutal bastard, Greg often called him, muttering under his breath as he cleared yet another crime scene. It was these cold-hearted criminals that oftentimes reminded Lestrade of how much of a psychopath, even a sociopath, Sherlock really wasn’t._

_How could Greg look into the dead, empty eyes of his man see any resemblance to Sherlock? How could Lestrade stare for hours on end at the wall of photographs of the victims and imagine his friend doing something so sickening?_

_Sherlock Holmes may have been a lot of things - arrogant, arsehole, manipulative, pickpocket - but he certainly wasn’t anything like this man. Like any of them._

_Even Moriarty, who had compared himself to Sherlock, was the polar opposite of the man._

_Even if the rest of the sodding world spent two years blind to the truth, even if others at the Yard couldn’t see it, Greg always could. He never gave up on the younger man. Not even when he first met him, well, found him, during a raid, high as a kite. Not when the drug addict had spent the entire ride in the back of the police car to the station telling the rookie all about the latest string of London murders, and who was responsible for them. Not when Donovan and Anderson, and then the entire city, were ready to string up the framed fake detective. No, Lestrade believed in Sherlock Holmes. Long before any social media mantra, in fact._

_He stood by his words spoken to John Watson all those years ago._

“Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day, if we’re very, very lucky, he might even be a good one.”

_It was this good man, his friend, that was now staring into the mouth of a killer’s gun. And it was for this same man, that Greg leapt forward, and in front of Sherlock._

_He didn’t hear the small explosion. He didn’t even feel the bullet tearing away at his skin._

_All he felt, were Sherlock’s arms, cradling him in what would have otherwise been a fairly graceless and painful fall. All he heard, was Sherlock’s voice. And a name he never thought would pass the man’s lips._

_“Greg!”_


End file.
